


Tale As Old As Time (JohnLock AU)

by Sini333



Category: Sherlock (TV), johnlock - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast Fusion, Crossover, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 07:25:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 14,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10759530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sini333/pseuds/Sini333
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is the smartest, most beautiful man in town. Everyone thinks he is strange, everyone except James Moriarty. One day, after an accident, Sherlock finds himself in a magical castle with a bitter, confused beast, a talking candelabra, a grumpy mantle clock, and a sweet old teapot. Life suddenly isn't so boring for the genius.





	1. Bored and Uncomfortable

**Author's Note:**

> I saw the new live-action Beauty and the Beast and became obsessed!!! I've read a lot of fics where Sherlock is the beast, but haven't really seen anything where John is portrayed as the beast so here is one!!! There is also hints of Mystrade ;) Enjoy<3

Sherlock was bored. Not that that was an unusual occurrence. The young man was always bored. There was nothing to do in the tiny town he had chosen to live in, and he once again regretted his choice.   
He could never remember why he chose this town, but something always told him to stay. An insistent urge to remain.   
Sherlock made his way through town, ignoring the whispers of the townspeople as he walked. They always talked about him, whispering their harsh words, not trying overly hard to hide their thoughts.   
They all thought he was weird, that he read too much and was too intelligent. He in turn thought they were all a bunch of mindless idiots.   
There was the baker, who always sold the same boring loafs of bread. There was crazy old Anderson, the Potter, who always seemed to be missing something.   
And then there was James Moriarty. The only man in the town other than Sherlock himself that was single and uninterested in female attentions.   
“Sherlock!” The young man rolled his eyes, squaring his shoulders and clutching his book tighter to his chest. He felt a hand on his elbow and was roughly spun to face the man he was trying so desperately to ignore. Moriarty stood before him, a predatory grin on his face. He scanned Sherlock’s face hungrily, leaving him feeling exposed and irritable.   
“Moriarty, what can I help you with?” He didn’t bother keeping the irritation out of his voice. Moriarty chuckled and stepped slightly closer to Sherlock.   
“I was wondering if you would join me for dinner? You look absolutely ravishing tonight.” Moriarty stepped into Sherlock’s personal space, causing the young man to blush and push his hand against his chest.   
“Not tonight.”  
“Oh? You’re busy tonight?”  
“No, just not interested.” Sherlock stepped away from Moriarty turning to make his way to the library, hoping the man would leave him be. As he walked away, he heard Moriarty’s companion, Sebastian, whine to him about his obsession with Sherlock.   
“Why must you always chase after him? There are plenty of other men in town that would die to be with you.”  
“Sherlock is special Seb. I must have him.” Sherlock felt an unpleasant chill trace his spine as he hurried on.


	2. Unwanted Courtship

Sherlock entered the library, breathing a sigh of relief as he did. Moriarty hadn’t followed him.   
“Sherlock! How is the only academic man in town.” Mike Stamford, the Librarian called from the back corner of the room.  
“Bored.”  
“So, nothing new then?” The short man chuckled. Sherlock sent him a smile that bordered on fond. Mike was the only man in the town that treated him like a normal person. “Finished the book?”  
“Of course.”  
“Which one did you take last week? I wrote it down somewhere-” Mike muttered, rifling through his files for his checkout list. Sherlock chuckled, replacing the book he had been carrying on the shelf.   
“Advanced Chemistry Volume 1”   
“Right.”  
“Do you have anything new this week?”  
“Actually, I do.” Sherlock felt a swell of excitement at the thought of new books to read. He grinned at the Librarian, bouncing on his toes as he rifled though some boxes. “I remembered you mentioning that you enjoyed the Fantasy genre, so I hunted down a copy of this.” Mike handed Sherlock a leather-bound book. He ran his fingers over the gold lettering on the front, unable to contain his awe at the book.   
“The Hobbit.” He whispered, feeling an inexplicable surge of nostalgia. He felt as though he had read the book before, but it had never been a part of Mike’s collection.   
“It’s yours.” Sherlock turned wide eyes to his friend. No one in the town had ever given him anything before. “Happy Birthday.”  
“My birthday is in January.”  
“Just accept it.”  
“Thank you, Mike.” The shorter man grinned and nodded, going back to his work.  
Sherlock left the store, already starting to read his new book. 

 

He made it home and set his new book down on the counter, a safe distance from his experiments, and started bustling about the kitchen. He was about to start an experiment when there was a knock at the door.   
He glared at the door, silently willing whoever it was to go away. The person ignored his silent demand though, continuing to pound on the door until Sherlock decided to answer.   
It was Moriarty and his pet, Moran.   
“Sherlock! I didn’t think you would be home.” Moriarty purred as he forced his way into the flat. Moran followed close behind, shoving Sherlock out of his way.   
“Please, come in. Make yourself at home.” Sherlock grumbled as the two men settled into his armchairs.   
“You have a lovely place here Sherlock, almost as lovely as you look right now.” His voice was dark and predatory, his tone causing Sherlock to flinch in discomfort.   
“What do you want Moriarty?”  
“You know, it is rude to speak to someone like that. Especially when they are trying to court you.” Moran snapped, crossing his arms defensively. Sherlock felt his gut clench in fear at those words.   
“This is my house, and you two just barged in here uninvited, I can speak to you however I please. I have no interest in being courted, especially not by James Moriarty. Now if you would please leave, I have work to do.” He gestured for the door, trying desperately to appear calm. Moriarty grinned, appearing more interested than before.   
“Sherlock, do you know why I am interested in you?”  
“Because you are a child that can’t stand to be told he can’t touch something?”  
“Hmm, attractive and sassy, you are a catch.” Moriarty ran his eyes over Sherlock’s thin frame, his eyes darkening. “I am interested in you because you are smart. You are the smartest man in this town, and you deserve to be with someone that can handle that brilliant brain of yours.” The man stood, straightening his suit jacket and nodding at Moran. “You need someone that can satisfy your needs.” Sherlock jumped as Moran slammed the door, ripping it painfully from his hand before shoving his back against it.   
Moriarty walked ever closer, each step he took sending a spark of fear along Sherlock’s spine. He tried to escape, but Moran pinned him in place with a strong hand. Moriarty stopped inches in front of Sherlock, his eyes dark and his grin darker.   
“Do you read fairy-tales Sherlock?” The young man shook his head, unable to find his voice. “Well, in this little story, you are the damsel and I am the prince, and honey you should see me in a crown.” Sherlock fought back the tremor that threatened to give away his fear.   
Moriarty grabbed his chin and pressed his lips against Sherlock’s. He tried to fight, keeping his lips sealed as tightly as possible and scramble to get the older man off him. Moriarty released his face, gripping his collar and throwing him across the room. His back connected harshly against the opposite wall, knocking the wind from his lungs.   
“You are mine Sherlock Holmes. You would do well to remember that.” He nodded at Moran before throwing the door open. The pair left the flat, leaving Sherlock alone. 

He slid down the wall, his entire body shaking with shock. He buried his face in his hands and allowed violent sobs to wrack his frame. 

He had to get out. He had to leave. He refused to allow himself to be taken by James Moriarty.

He scrambled to his feet, still shaking violently, and grabbed his bag. He shoved a handful of clothes into it, along with his new book and his microscope.   
He shot out the door, locking it behind him before running down to the stables. He saddled his horse as fast as he could.   
He clambered onto the animal, kicking it into action as he galloped through town, ignoring the curses and cries of the people.   
He fled into the forest, the blackness amongst the trees pulling him deeper into their cold embrace.


	3. In The Woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N Hope you guys are liking this!!! Comments are welcome and encouraged!!! Enjoy<3

Sherlock pushed the horse more than he probably should have, but Redbeard was a powerful beast and never hesitated under Sherlock’s panic. He allowed himself to be carried through the unfamiliar forest, uncaring if he got lost. He was aware of how to survive in the wild.

His mind was starting to right itself, coming down from the shock of being assaulted by Moriarty.

_You belong to me, Sherlock Holmes._

Sherlock shivered against the wind that tore through his frame as he galloped along the trail. He could feel the heaviness of a storm settling in.

He would have to find a place to rest soon.

A bolt of lightening cracked down onto a tree next to him, sending Sherlock and Redbeard tumbling down a slight hill. He felt pain blossom in his wrist as he landed.

He quickly righted himself and caught Redbeard’s reigns before the horse could run. He soothed the panicked animal before surveying his surroundings. They had fallen down a small incline, revealing another trail. Despite his better judgement, Sherlock decided to follow the new trail in hopes of finding a house or town where he could stay and rest.

He climbed back on Redbeard and steered the animal down the new trail, keeping the pace at a gentle walk. His wrist ached worse than any pain he could remember, he was certain he had broken it.

The sky darkened intimidatingly and snow began to fall.

“Snow in June. This does not bode well for us my friend.” He murmured to the horse, uncertainty starting to hang heavy on his shoulders.

A dark growl sounded from behind him.

He glanced around and caught sight of an unnaturally large wolf stalking him and felt the panic set in.

He spurred Redbeard into a gallop, shouting into the air in hopes of either scaring off the predator, or drawing the attention of a hunter. He was fully panicking as they roared through the ice-covered woods.

In the distance, he could see the outline of a massive gate. He steered the horse towards the iron structure.

More growls filled the air as Redbeard ran, signaling the arrival of more wolves. Sherlock felt his body flood with terror. He wasn’t getting out of this alive.

He was less than a hundred feet from the gate when Redbeard lost his footing, slipping on a patch of ice and sending Sherlock flying. His head struck a rock and he fell to the ground, stunned. He felt his wrist crack further as he connected with the frozen dirt.

He was quickly surrounded by wolves, the largest standing directly in front of him, teeth bared and fur standing on end.

“Redbeard!” He screamed, knowing it was futile, that the horse was probably long gone. He grabbed a large stick and scrambled to his feet, swinging at the beasts. His stick connected with the jaw of the leader, the broken bones in his wrist grinding together painfully. He realized his mistake as soon as wood connected with flesh.

The wolf lunged at him, its claws digging into his chest and thighs he was knocked to the ground. He was vaguely aware of someone screaming. The wolf sank its teeth into his shoulder and he felt his vision start to fade to black.

For what felt like an eternity, all he could feel was the tearing of muscle and tissues as the wolf tore into his shoulder. He tried to push the beast off, finding his right wrist nearly useless while his left struggled to get a grip on the sleek fur of his attacker.

The shrieking cry of a horse in peril pulled the wolf’s attention away from his body. A new growl rumbled through the air, deeper than the wolves and twice as loud.

The wolf that was on top of him was ripped off his chest, sent flying with an unpleasant shriek and a sickening crunch. Sherlock caught sight of his saviour as his vision faded away.

A black pair of horns burned themselves into his mind’s eye.


	4. In The Castle

Sherlock woke to throbbing joints and searing pain. He was honestly shocked to be finding consciousness at all. He had been convinced that he was dead.

“I told you to stay out.” A soft voice whispered from the darkness, causing curiosity to fill the young man. “No, I don’t care. The last thing we want is for him to waken and see you. Now, get out.” Sherlock pried open his eyes, scanning the room and processing everything as quickly as his pain addled mind could.

There was no one in the room.

“Well, well, look who decided to join the land of the living.” The mysterious voice came from the darkness off to Sherlock’s left, but there was no one there.

“Wh-where-”

“No, no don’t speak. The wolf got your throat and the Master doesn’t want you to damage your vocal chords anymore than they already have been. I am assuming this is a long shot, but can you write?” Sherlock feebly nodded, hearing the surprised sound the mysterious voice made at that. “Excellent. That will make communicating with you easier. There is a pad and pen by your hand. Can you reach it?” Sherlock glanced down and saw the pad, taking it painfully in his hand and nodding.

“Good, now, what is your name?”

_Sherlock._

“Pleasure to meet you Sherlock. My name is Lestrade. My partner will be here shortly to explain everything. How is your pain level?”

_1 – 10? 15._

“The Master was afraid of that. When my partner gets here he will bring you some painkillers.”

_Who are you?_ Sherlock still couldn’t find the source of the voice, and was beginning to become concerned. The only thing in the room other than himself a large, wing-backed chair, was an intricate Candelabra.

Suddenly, the Candelabra moved.

Sherlock felt terror rise in his chest as the object turned to face him, moving as though it were alive. The base changed to the legs and feet of a human and it walked towards him.

“Sorry, I suppose I should have properly introduced myself-”

“What the fuck?” Sherlock blurted, trying to push himself away from the object.

“Your vocal-”

“H-how- I-I don’t- Help!” Sherlock managed to get himself into a sitting position, fear clouding over the pain. “Help! Someone please! Help!”

“Sherlock! You need to calm down! You’re going to hurt yourself!” The Candelabra kept getting closer, so Sherlock kept trying to push away.

He reached the edge of the bed and fell to the ground, landing on his already broken wrist, causing him to scream in pain. He could feel his wounds tearing open as he struggled to get away.

“What is going on here?” A new voice came from the doorway, the heavy looking piece of wood propped open to reveal an ornate looking Mantle Clock.

“Mycroft, thank Heavens! He is having a fit.”

“Of course, he is having a fit Greg, you’re a talking Candle.” The clock snapped, waddling closer to the terrified young man. Sherlock was aware that he had started to hyperventilate, as well as the tears that were falling from his eyes. Whether he was crying from pain or fear, he couldn’t be sure. “Now, what is your name young man?”

“S-Sherlock.” He fought to keep his voice steady, failing miserably. He saw the clock hesitate, and if his eyes weren’t deceiving him, he could have sworn he saw it look sad.

“Well, Sherlock. Welcome to our castle. My name is Mycroft, I am the head of the household. That is Greg, my husband and leader of the staff. What brings you here?”

“I-I was-” Sherlock hesitated, unsure of how to explain why he was there. “I was out for a ride and I lost the trail.” He explained simply, deciding to keep his secrets to himself.

“Very well. I will inform The Master that you are awake and have reopened your wounds. Would you like some tea?” Sherlock nodded timidly, hoping that whoever this Master was, he would take pity on him and just kill him. “I will send Mrs. Hudson up. Greg, with me please?”

“Yes Love. Just stay there Sherlock, in your condition, you won’t be able to open the door.” Lestrade and Mycroft left, leaving Sherlock alone, bleeding, and terrified.

 

He must have passed out, because he was shocked to consciousness by the clinking of fine china and the excited whisper of a child.

“Oh dear, I do hope John gets down here soon, he has lost far too much blood.”

“Is he going to die?”

“No, of course he’s not child, John won’t let that happen. Oh, look who’s up. How’re you feeling Dear?” It was the teapot talking this time, and Sherlock had to fight back another wave of panic.

“I-I’m-” He stumbled over his words, too dizzy to form a complete sentence.

“Don’t you stress yourself Dear, have some tea.” The teacup slid forward, coming to rest by his hand. He flinched, scared to touch the delicate china.

“My name’s Rosamund, but you can call me Rosie.”

“R-Rosie. I’m Sherlock.”

“Hi!”

“And I am Mrs. Hudson. Drink up Dear, she won’t break.” Sherlock obeyed, wincing as the action irritated his wounds some more. He sipped the tea, all the while listening to the cup chat.

The ground began to shake as thunderous footsteps approached.

Sherlock gently placed Rosie on the ground and tried to scramble away, ignoring the protests of Mrs. Hudson and his body.

He cowered in the corner as the door swung open to reveal an imposing figure, black horns glinting in the candlelight. A rumbling growl filled the room, causing Sherlock to tremble.

“What the hell have you done?”


	5. The Beast

“What the hell have you done?” The thunderous voice growled, sending sparks of panic throughout Sherlock’s body. “Will someone please turn on the damned lights?” The lights flickered on and Sherlock whimpered at the sight of his captor.

He stood like a man, but he was the farthest thing from one. His face looked like a lion, and he had massive paws in place of hands and feet. Sherlock could see fangs and claws buried amongst the blondish fur.

Out of the top of his head grew intimidating black horns, twisting up and back. They shone in the light, looking deadlier than any weapon he had ever laid eyes on.

He had to get out of here.

The Beast stepped over to the bed, adjusting the covers and grabbing a large case that was resting by the chair. When he moved away from the door, Sherlock tried to run, forcing himself to his feet and propelling off the wall. He was almost to the door when he felt a huge paw wrap around his middle, lifting him off his feet and throwing him against the mattress.

“No! Please! Somebody, help! Help! Let me go!” He screamed, kicking and thrashing against the creature that pinned him down.

“Damn it! Stop moving! You’re going to hurt yourself!” the Beast growled, easily keeping the weaker man pinned to the mattress with one paw pressed against his chest. Sherlock tried to push the paw off himself, using his nails to try and cut the skin beneath the fur.

“Get off me! Let me go! Help! Help!”

“Damn it, if you don’t stop squirming I’m going to have to knock you out and I would really rather not do that. So just fucking stop and let me help you, you bloody git!” Sherlock froze, giving his body a quick scan.

“I wouldn’t survive anymore injuries.”

“Exactly. Now, please let me help you. You are losing blood and I’m really concerned about your wrist. I’m going to let you go now, will you behave long enough for me to fix you up?” Sherlock nodded, breathing a sigh of relief as the weight disappeared from his chest. The Beast nodded and placed the case on the bed next to Sherlock’s head, pulling it open and rifling through.

Sherlock watched as the creature handled the medical equipment with the precision of a surgeon. He readied a needle and some thread for sutures, as well as sterilized some bandages and his claws.

“Alright, I’m going to have to take your shirt and trousers off to redo the bandages. But first I want to re-set your wrist.” Sherlock had gotten his other arm set once, and it was the most painful thing he had ever gone through. That one had been a minor break, this one had been broken several times over. He shook his head, pulling his arm tight against his chest. The Beast rolled his eyes, grabbing Sherlock’s broken wrist and pulling it closer to him. Sherlock whimpered, fear filling him as he started to tremble. “This is going to hurt, but I need you to fight through the pain and don’t pass out.”

“I-I can’t-”

“Yes, you can. Now, on the count of three. One. Two.” The beast pulled roughly on his arm, straightening the bone and pulling a scream from Sherlock’s throat. He felt the paw return to his chest as he writhed in pain.

It took another ten minutes before he was steady enough for The Beast to continue working on his wounds.

They sat in silence for a long while, Sherlock watching in awe as the beast expertly stitched together his wounds.

“Where did you learn how to do that?” Sherlock asked, unable to contain his curiosity. The Beast chuckled, a dark, rumbling sound that echoed pleasantly in Sherlock’s chest.

“I used to be a doctor, way back when. The knowledge kind of sticks with you.”

“You?”

“Yes me. Now hush, you shouldn’t be talking so much. Your throat could have damage-”

“My throat is fine. What is your name?”

“John. Yours?”

“Your friends haven’t told you?”

“Nope, and they aren’t my friends.”

“Sherlock.”

“Pleasure to meet you Sherlock. Dinner is at six, I’ll have Mrs. Hudson bring you a tray.” John finished wrapping Sherlock’s wounds and stood gathering his case and making his way to the door.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Too bad. You either eat on your own, or I come back up and force it down your throat.” With that, John was gone, leaving Sherlock feeling more like a prisoner than a guest.

The young man drifted off to sleep, his mind plagued with adrenaline and fear, tainting and corrupting memories.

He fell asleep to the sound of the beasts growling voice, repeating what Moriarty had said to him.

_“You belong to me, Sherlock Holmes.”_


	6. The Curse

John hadn’t been lying about making him eat. Mrs. Hudson had woken him a few hours after the beast had left him alone, pulling him from his terrified dreams with gentle words and soothing sounds. He was grateful for her kindness, her mindless chattering helped him to calm down enough to keep the food down.   
“Why is he-” Sherlock waved his hands uselessly, trying to find the right words to describe his captor. “Like that?” His brain wasn’t functioning to its full capacity yet, and his lack of ability to form coherent sentences was irritating to say the least.   
“The Master is a good man, he just has a bit of a temper. You should get some rest, let your body heal. I will come back in and check on you in a few hours.” Sherlock nodded and watched as the teapot and her cart wheeled their way out of his room.   
“Did he eat?” Sherlock could hear the rumbling voice of The Master coming from outside of his room.   
“Yes, almost the entire tray.”  
“He kept everything down okay? No vomiting?”  
“Why don’t you ask him yourself? You’re the doctor.” He heard the squeaky wheels of Mrs. Hudson’s cart as it left, leaving what sounded like a terrified beast, calling after her quietly.   
“No, Mrs. Hudson! Come back- you can’t-” Sherlock pulled his blanket up to his face, biting on the soft cloth to try to hide the giggle that threatened to escape. He heard the beast sigh heavily, a soft growl rumbling through the room. “Damn it.”   
He heard a soft knocking on his door, and frantically adjusted his blankets. He hadn’t bothered to put his shirt back on after The Beast left earlier, and now he was regretting that decision.   
“C-come in.” Damn his voice for trembling. The large head of his captor poked around the door before the rest of him entered, sending another flash of fear through Sherlock. He gripped the sheets tightly to hide how badly he was shaking.   
“How are you feeling?”   
“Fine.”  
“Are you keeping the food down?”  
“Yes.”  
“Good. If that changes inform us immediately. Vomiting could indicate-”  
“-Internal injuries or a negative reaction to medication.” Sherlock rambled, instantly regretting speaking.  
“That’s right. I’m impressed.” He looked at the creature before him in awe. He hadn’t expected that. “Anyways, I just thought I would make sure you were feeling alright. I will leave you alone to rest now. Good night Sherlock.”  
“What are you going to do to me?” The question fell from his lips before he could stop it. The Beast stopped mid-turn, hesitating at Sherlock’s question.   
“I am going to ensure you don’t die of your injuries, and then I’m going to escort you out of these woods and on to safety.” At that, the beast left, leaving the door open just slightly. Sherlock settled back into the numerous pillows behind him, trying to process what had just happened. 

 

“You are letting him go?” Mycroft was practically screaming at John, pacing as well as he could in front of the Beast. “You can’t just let him go! He won’t make it out there! You saw what happened to him the last time!”  
“I’m not going to just hand him the reigns and tell him to fuck off! I’ll escort him to the edge of the woods and point him in the right direction.” John growled in frustration and pulled at his fur. He hated when Mycroft got demanding, it meant that him and Greg were fighting again, and John always seemed to get the blunt end of that stick.   
“You can’t send him back to that town John.”  
“Why not? I thought you said he was safe there?”  
“John, there is only one reason my little brother would have fled the town like that. Something happened. And I have a feeling that that something’s name is James Moriarty.”   
“Wait, wasn’t there a Moriarty on staff here?”  
“Yes, I fired him only hours before-” Mycroft hesitated, seemingly unsure as to how to continue. John nodded, turning to watch the fire that crackled in front of him. He fought back an overwhelming wave of sadness. “If Moriarty did something to Sherlock, he won’t go back there. He will get lost on the trail and you won’t find him this time.”  
“He can stay here until he is healed. Then we can discuss where he will go.”  
“Thank you, John.”  
“Good night Mycroft.” He heard the clock make his way out of the room, asking Lestrade if he was joining him.   
“I’ll be there in a minute Love.” The Candelabra responded, climbing onto the table beside John and sitting on the edge.  
They were quiet for a long while, both watching the fire burn in the hearth.   
“The rose lost another petal today.” John nodded, his chest tightening. “You have to do something John, we don’t have that much longer.”  
“I know Greg.”   
“You know, Sherlock is-”  
“God! Don’t even start with that.”  
“With what?”  
“Just, go to bed.” Lestrade grumbled, hopping off the table and stalking out of the room. “And stop yelling at your husband, he takes it out on me.”  
“Aw, poor baby!” Greg laughed, causing John to growl softly at him.   
He watched the fire burn late into the night, listening to his castle breathing around him. Greg was right, they didn’t have much longer before the final petal fell and the odds of breaking the curse were looking dimmer every day.   
He felt the gentle rumbling of the castle crumbling around him.  
Another petal had fallen.


	7. Stay in Your Room

Sherlock was forced to spend the next three days trapped in his room, only allowed to leave the bed to use the bathroom. John never stayed for long when he would check in on him, only long enough to ask how he was feeling and if he needed anything.

Sherlock was bored.

Mrs. Hudson tried to keep him entertained, talking to him and introducing him to some of the other staff members. It worked for about an hour the first day, then he got bored and started itching for something to do.

“When can I leave this room?” He asked Mrs. Hudson one night after she had brought him his dinner.

“Oh, that’s up to John to decide Dearie. Why don’t you ask him next time you see him?” Sherlock frowned at the sandwich on his plate, picking at the bread. “What’s wrong Sweetie?” Mrs. Hudson’s voice was soft and she hopped closer to him. He sighed and pushed the plate away, no longer hungry.

“Nothing. I’m just bored.”

“I’ll have John come up and-”

“No!” He flushed, he hadn’t meant to shout. He still was slightly terrified of The Beast.

“Oh, stop that. John is a good man and has only ever treated you kindly. Now, get some rest.” She left him alone to his thoughts.

He had to get out of this room.

He silently climbed out of bed, wincing slightly as his wounds ached. His legs felt weak due to inactivity and he stumbled, catching himself on the bed before he fell.

He made his way out of the room, quietly walking down the hall. The ceilings were high, the walls filled with detailed paintings and intricate tapestries. He studied the artwork with a sense of awe, wandering the halls aimlessly.

He made his way up a flight of stairs, ignoring the pain that bloomed in his thighs at the climb.

He found himself in a darkened hall, the walls looking ancient. There were deep gauges and slash marks in the concrete walls and floors. The tapestries were shredded and there were paintings on the floor. It looked like a battlefield.

Sherlock felt a sense of trepidation as he continued exploring. He fought back the urge to turn and run, pressing towards an intricate set of doors at the end of the long hall. When he reached them, he pushed, trying to swing them open. They barely moved, and the action caused his chest to flare in pain. He whimpered, clutching his hand to his chest and leaning heavily against the door.

“You shouldn’t be up here.” The growling voice of The Beast caused him to start, spinning around and crumbling to the floor. He scrambled back, afraid of what his captor would do. He had been instructed to stay in bed.

“I-I’m- I’m s-sorry.”

“I thought I told you to stay in your room. You could get hurt.”

“Yeah, because an empty castle could hurt me. It seems the more likely scenario is the fucking beast that is keeping me here!” He had no idea where those words came from, but he couldn’t seem to stop them. “Why don’t you just kill me huh? Or are you just trying to fatten me up before you eat me?”

The Beast snarled, stepping closer to Sherlock and baring his teeth. Sherlock cowered slightly, but stood his ground.

“I’m tempted to do just that. You are one ungrateful son of a bitch, you know that? Get back to your room.”

“What if I don’t?”

“Then I will pick you up and carry your skinny ass there.” There was no room for negotiation in his tone, so Sherlock obeyed, pushing himself to his feet and glaring at the creature before him. A spark of realization hit him and couldn’t stop himself from saying what crossed his mind.

“A Chimera.” The Beast froze, confusion spreading over his face. “That’s what you are modeled after. A Chimera. Well, minus the fire breathing part. You are part man part beast, aren’t you? That’s how you have all that medical knowledge. You were human once, but not anymore. You were cursed somehow, you and your staff. Something in that room keeps you like this, that’s why your castle won’t let me in there. You are hiding behind your curse, trying to keep me at arms length. What are you hiding oh Master of the Haunted Castle?” Sherlock was certain he was going to die now. He had always been ridiculed for his abilities, and now he had just deduced a creature that could kill him without a second thought.

“Well I’ll be dammed.” The Beast bared his teeth, and it took far too long for Sherlock to realize he was grinning. “You really are just like Mycroft, aren’t you?” Sherlock furrowed his brow in confusion.

“I-I don’t understand.”

“You should put that on a t-shirt.” The Beast winked at him and turned, walking away. “Come on. You need to get back to your room and sleep. I’ll give you the full tour tomorrow.”

“Wait, you aren’t mad?” Sherlock followed along behind him, limping as the pain in his thighs grew.

“Why would I be mad? That was brilliant.”

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do they normally say?”

“Piss off.” The Beast stopped, tilting his head just enough so that he could look at Sherlock.

“They’re idiots.” He grumbled before walking on, Sherlock following a decent distance behind. “You alright back there?” He asked after a while. Sherlock whimpered as they reached the top of the stairs. He was getting dizzy and the pain was higher than it had been all day. “Sherlock?” The rumbling voice had started to fade as he lost the function of his legs, tumbling down the stairs.

As he lost consciousness, he heard the rumbling voice of The Beast cursing and felt his head connect with the stone.


	8. Fighting

“Shit!” John cursed as he watched the young man behind him hit the cold stone stairs. He ran back up the steps, catching the limp body before his skull could strike the stairs again. He grabbed him up in his arms and raced through the palace, calling for Mycroft and Greg as he went.

“What’s happened?” Lestrade was the first to arrive, running along behind John as he ripped through the halls.

“I don’t know. One second he was fine and the next he was on the floor.”

“What’s his heart rate at?”

“It’s irregular but strong. Grab me my kit.” He pushed into Sherlock’s room, dropping the young man onto the bed and tearing open his shirt. Greg heaved his kit onto the bed, climbing on and opening it, ready to help.

“What’s wrong?” Mycroft’s voice came from the doorway.

“He collapsed. I need to know his medical history. Is there anything I should know?”

“Like what?”

“History of illness? Prone to infection?”

“He had pneumonia once as a child.” John nodded and started cutting the bandages away from his chest.

The kid was thin. Almost too thin, despite eating regularly. That wasn’t a good sign. He peeled away the gauze and growled when he saw the wounds.

The torn skin was not healing well, and he could see the start of an infection building. It wasn’t enough to cause Sherlock to pass out, but it wasn’t good. He did the same to the bandages on his thighs, finding those wounds in a similar state.

“Damn it.”

“What’s wrong?”

“He’s developing an infection, but that isn’t what caused this.”

“Can you help him?” Mycroft sounded worried, not that John could blame him. Things were not looking good for Sherlock.

“If I can figure out what the hell is causing this, then hopefully yes.”

“Save him John, or so help me God-”

“Greg, get him out of here. I need to focus.” Greg escorted his husband from the room, pulling the door shut behind him. “What the hell is wrong with you Sherlock Holmes?” He whispered, leaning down and pressing his ear against the pale chest.

The heart beat was muffled.

“Fuck!” John reached for his kit, pulling out his stethoscope. He fit it into his ears and pressed it against Sherlock’s chest, right above his left lung. He listened, tapping the area a few times with one of his fingers.

There was fluid in Sherlock’s lungs.

“Damn it. Greg!” He called for the Candelabra. Greg wasn’t medically trained, but he knew enough about first aid to be useful.

“What’s happening?”

“There is fluid in his lungs. Prep my needles, I need to extract it.” Greg leaped into action, using the heat from his flame to sterilize the instruments. John cleaned the wounds on Sherlock’s chest and thighs, taking extra care to ensure the skin around the injuries was cleaned and ready for him to pierce it with his needle.

Greg handed him the large needle, holding his hands close to give John the extra light he needed. John took a steadying breath, pressing the needle against the pale skin. He hated doing this without anesthesia, but Sherlock was out of time.

The steel breached the skin and slid through the muscle and tissue. He struck resistance and pressed more firmly, forcing through the barrier until the needle continued with ease. He stopped pushing in and pulled back the plunger, watching as the barrel filled with a thick, cloudy fluid.

He repeated the process twice before moving over to the next lung.

It was a lengthy process, and Sherlock’s status didn’t waver. Once John finished, he leaned back, taking the young man’s pulse and checking once more for fluids. When he was satisfied, he called Mycroft back in. reassuring him that he had cleared the fluid, and that he would keep an eye on his status through the night.

He stayed by Sherlock’s bedside, checking his lungs and pulse several times an hour. He found the bag Sherlock had with him when he found him and pulled out the leather-bound book he saw in there. It was a copy of The Hobbit. He smiled as he opened the pages. He decided to read to the young man, hoping it would stimulate brain function.

“In a hole in the ground there lived a Hobbit.”


	9. The Lab

John was almost halfway through the book before Sherlock showed any signs of improving. Mycroft checked in frequently, never staying for more than a few minutes at a time.

John didn’t leave Sherlock’s side.

The young man’s lungs stayed clear and the infection started to fade, but he still didn’t wake up. John was beginning to get concerned when he heard a soft moan come from the pale boy. He stopped reading and sat up, pressing the back of his paw to his cheek, testing his temperature. Sherlock had developed a fever shortly after John had cleared his lungs.

“Hey, Sherlock?” He spoke as softly as he could, hoping he wouldn’t scare the young man. “Hey, talk to me Sherlock.” The young man whimpered and he clenched his eyes tight, his fingers twitching against the sheets. “Come on Sherlock, open your eyes.” The young man obeyed, prying his eyes open. John saw the fear fill his face as he tried to move away.

“N-no-”

“Hey, hey, it’s alright. You’re fine. You’re fine. Stay still, I had to drain your lungs of fluid and you have been fighting off infection for a few days. Your chest is going to hurt like a bitch for a while.” John spoke in soothing tones, keeping a gentle pressure on the boy’s shoulder to stop him from escaping.

“W-what- what happened?”

“You passed out on the stairs. I brought you back here and found your lungs had filled with fluid and infection had set into your chest and thighs. I drained your lungs and cleaned your wounds, and have been monitoring your status for the better half of a week.”

“Was the fluid caused by infection?”

“As far as I can tell yes. Chemistry was never really my strong suit so I don’t really know how to test the samples.”

“If I had access to my lab back in town I could test them.” John blinked at the young man, unable to hide the smirk that played at his lips.

“You have a lab?” Sherlock blushed lightly, tugging at the blankets as though he was embarrassed. “What kind of lab?”

“Nothing too impressive. Just a couple of microscopes and some testing equipment.”

“That’s cool.” Sherlock looked at him, shocked.

“Y-you think so?”

“Yeah. I always liked chemistry but I sucked at it. Hang on a minute.” He jumped up from his seat, hurrying from the room. He had an idea that he was certain Sherlock would love.

 

“Hang on a minute.” The Beast sprung up from his chair, racing from the room and leaving Sherlock alone.

His lungs hurt and he felt slightly nauseous. The pain level was high, but not unbearable. The thing he was most concerned about was the way his heart was fluttering. That couldn’t be good.

He was jolted out of his thoughts by The Beast entering the room again. He looked excited, practically bouncing as he came to a stop by Sherlock’s bed.

“I want to show you something, but I will need you to trust me.”

“W-with what?”

“What I want to show you is downstairs, I’ve got to carry you for a bit, but as soon as we get past the stairs I have a wheelchair for you to use.” The creature stepped forward and held out his paws. Sherlock thought for a moment, debating with himself. The logical side of his brain was screaming at him to not trust him, that if he went with The Beast he wouldn’t see the light of day again.

But there was another part of him, a part he was unfamiliar with, that told him he could trust this strange creature. That John wouldn’t hurt him.

He listened to that part.

He gasped as The Beast lifted him gently into his arms, taking care to not aggravate the wounds.

“Alright?”

“Alright.” The Beast carried him out of the room almost effortlessly, the closeness making Sherlock blush lightly.

He was carried down a large set of stairs he vaguely recognized from his little venture the other day. At the base of the stairs was an older wheelchair. As promised, The Beast dropped him into the chair and pushed him through the halls.

“If you like what I’m about to show you, I can arrange to have you moved down to this level so you don’t have to worry about me carrying you every time you want to come down here.” Sherlock nodded uncertainly, still slightly wary of his captor.

They stopped outside of a large set of doors, where Sherlock was spun around, allowing The Beast to back through the doors.

When he was turned back the other way, his heart skipped a beat.

He was in a huge room, the walls lined with shelves upon shelves of books. The entire ground floor was a lab, filled with expensive scientific equipment and supplies.

“Like I said, Chemistry isn’t exactly my strong suit so this just kind of sits here. It’s yours if you want it.” Sherlock spun around in his chair, looking at the beast behind him in awe.

“A-are y-you serious?” The Beast grinned, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck, looking sheepish.

“Yeah. I never use it, so if you want it, you are welcome to it.”

“T-thank you.” Sherlock whispered, feeling slightly overwhelmed. “No one has ever- I-I don’t- how can I ever-” An unpleasant flash of realization sparked in his gut.

This is how The Beast would draw him in. Now Sherlock owed him.

“There is no need to thank me or repay me Sherlock. I don’t know how long it will take for you to heal fully and I don’t want you to get bored again. I think you reacted to something you inhaled up in the far wing.”

“Did you keep any of the fluid you pulled from my lungs?” Sherlock’s curiosity was piqued, the terror that had settled in his mind disappearing for now.

“Yep. It’s in the fridge.” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at the Beast. “Shut up, it’s a force of habit to collect samples.” Sherlock shrugged and wheeled himself over to one of the stations, wiping down the dust and admiring the closest microscope. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. I’ll have Mrs. Hudson bring you some tea and biscuits.”

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock whispered, uncertain if The Beast had heard him or not.


	10. There's Something There

Over the next few weeks, Sherlock slowly started gaining his strength back. His thighs healed first, allowing him to walk around freely. His chest wasn’t healing as well as any of them hoped, the wounds seemingly unable to close. The infection tried to flare up three more times, but each time, John managed to halt it in its tracks.

John spent most of his days with Sherlock, watching as the brilliant young man ran his experiments. Sherlock was smart, his head filled with knowledge that John couldn’t even imagine.

Time passed, and with it, the castle continued to crumble around them. Lestrade’s joints stiffened, and Mycroft lost control over his internal mechanisms more frequently. Mrs. Hudson kept forgetting things and Rosie talked less and less.

“Why does the castle crumble like that?” Sherlock asked one day, after another piece fell to the ground. John thought for a moment, trying to find the best words to explain.

“It’s part of the curse. Every day, a part of the castle falls, my staff becomes less human, and I get closer to damnation.”

“Who cursed you?”

“An Enchantress. I rejected her and she didn’t take it very well.”

“Wow, what a bitch.” John laughed at that, placing a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder as he did. The young man had gotten much more comfortable around John, no longer flinching when he moved too fast or touched him.

“Basically.” Sherlock grinned up at him, an expression that John only ever saw if he was laughing himself. Sherlock cleared his throat and John became very aware he was still touching the young man. He quickly withdrew, rubbing his face and backing away slightly. “I-I’m going to go, I need to talk to Mycroft about, something.” He awkwardly fled, thanking every deity he could think of that he had fur to hide the blush that had taken over his face.

He raced through the halls, searching for his Head of Staff. He found Lestrade first.

“Hey, where is Myc?”

“I don’t know, he said something about yelling at the spoons.”

“Why is he yelling at the spoons now?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they were forking around.” The Candelabra laughed at his own joke, but all John could manage was a tight smile. Greg noticed instantly and stepped closer. “What’s wrong John?”

“I-I- I don’t know.”

“Talk to me.”

“Sherlock stopped flinching.” Greg grinned and motioned for John to sit in the chair next to him. Once John was settled, Greg sat on the table facing him, wincing as his joints creaked.

“And that’s freaking you out why?” John ran his fingers through his hair and tugged, growling at the overwhelming surge of emotions that caused his hands to shake.

“I-I don’t know. I’m not used to people not getting freaked out by me. It’s weird.” He sighed and hid his face in his hands. “There’s something there Greg, and I don’t know what the hell to do about it.”

“Tell him?”

“No! No, I don’t want to freak him out.”

“John, we are running out of time. If there is even the slightest chance that Sherlock could be-”

“No Greg. He has to decide first, I can’t push anything on him.”

“But John-”

“No Greg.” He stood and stormed out of the room, hurrying off to the far wing of the castle.

He needed to think.

 

 

Sherlock tried to focus on his work, but found himself distracted by thoughts of John. The Beast was different than he had initially thought, kinder and far gentler than Sherlock would have thought possible. He was lost in thought for a while, until he heard the clinking of the Candelabra’s feet on the stone floor. He glanced over, watching Lestrade as he clambered onto the counter next to Sherlock.

“Hello Gavin.”

“Alright, you’ve been here for over a month now, do you really not know my name yet?”

“Of course, I remember your name.” The candelabra smirked, “It’s Maverick is it not?”

“Alright.” There was annoyance in Lestrade’s voice that made Sherlock chuckle. He liked bugging Gavin. “Have you talked to John recently?” The question shocked Sherlock out of his thoughts and he had to struggle to contain the flush that threatened to take over his cheeks.

“He was here earlier, he said he had to talk to Mycroft about something. Why?”

“Well I just talked to him about an hour ago and he seemed, I don’t know, flustered or something.” Sherlock almost dropped the beaker he was holding. John had only left the lab about an hour ago. Why would he have been flustered then?

“Oh?” He tried desperately to sound nonchalant, but the tremor in his voice was unmistakable.

“Yeah, I don’t know what got into him. I’ve never seen anything like that before, I’m a little worried to be honest. He is never like that.” Sherlock felt a spark of concern start to pool in his gut. “Is everything alright with you two?” This time, Sherlock did drop the beaker. By some miracle, Lestrade managed to catch it. “You okay?”

“Y-yes I’m fine. Everything’s fine. Sh-should I go talk to John?” This was new territory for Sherlock and he had no idea what to do.

“Actually, I was thinking that would be a clever idea. He is in the far wing.”

“I’m not allowed in the far wing.”

“Says who?”

“The castle. And the last time I went there I almost died, remember?”

“Fine, I’ll tell him you want to talk. Meet him in the ballroom at eight o’clock. Dress nicely, the Harpsichord hates it when you don’t dress appropriately when you enter his room.” Lestrade leapt off the counter, leaving a confused Sherlock behind.

“Wait, I don’t have anything nice!”

“Talk to the wardrobe in the room across the hall from your old one. She will help you.”

  

 

Lestrade went to talk to John next, a plan formulating in his head. He found The Beast in the Far Wing.

“Hey, Sherlock wants to talk to you.”

“What?”

“I told him you would meet him in the ballroom at eight.”

“What! Why the ballroom? What- why- Greg, what the fuck-”

“Oh, calm yourself, you big baby. He was under the impression that he wasn’t allowed up here so I told him to meet you down there.”

“In the ballroom?”

“Yes.”

“Where there is a strict dress code?”

“Yes.”

“And where the instruments start playing romantic music whenever two people so much as walk past the doors?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that-”

“Greg!”

“I’ve got to go. Remember, in the ballroom at eight. Wear your dark blue outfit, it brings out your eyes!” He laughed and dodged a book that was thrown at him.

He ran into Mycroft outside the door.

“Hey Love, what’s up?”

“I could ask you the same thing. What is your plan Greg?”

“Whatever do you mean My Dear?”

“Why are you so determined to get John and Sherlock in that ballroom?”

“Let’s just say, there’s something there that wasn’t there before.” He winked and continued down the hall.

He had a ball to prepare.


	11. Tale as Old as Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N I made Irene Adler the wardrobe because she is gay (in the show) and if she is the wardrobe that means she is essentially stuck in the closet....;) hahaha

Sherlock walked up the stairs to the room Lestrade had directed him to, fighting back a wave of nerves. He had no reason to be so nervous, after all, he was only talking to John, in the ballroom, dressed in fancy clothes.

This wasn’t good.

He stepped into the empty room, catching sight of a large, ornate wardrobe in the corner.

“H-hello? Lestrade told me to come talk to you.”

“Well, well.” A voice purred from the wardrobe, the doors opening slightly. “Aren’t you a pretty thing?” Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, it felt as though he was being appraised. “You must be the new prince everyone is talking about.”

“I-I’m not a prince-”

“Well, not yet at least.” The wardrobe shuffled towards him, moving far more gracefully than a massive cabinet should be able to. “My name is Irene. What’s yours?”

“I’m sure you know my name by now, Miss Adler.” The wardrobe walked around him, clucking her tongue as her eyes raked over his form.

“Yes, but I want to hear you say it. I can only imagine what it sounds like in that dark voice of yours.”

“Sh-Sherlock.”

“Hmm, well Sherlock, what can I help you with today?”

“I-I need an outfit. I am supposed to meet John in the ballroom soon and I was told I needed to dress appropriately.”

“Oh, a date in the ballroom with the handsome prince, lucky John.”

“Please stop calling me a prince, and it’s not a date.” The wardrobe chuckled, a piece of the decorative woodwork coming off the front, acting as an arm, and tracing Sherlock’s cheekbone. “Are you going to help me?”

“Of course, Cheekbones. Can’t have you showing up to your first date looking like that, now can we?”

“It’s not a-” The wardrobe cut him off with a loud laugh and a flurry of fabric. He tried to escape, but found the door closed. His clothes were removed, piece by piece, and replaced with a new outfit.

When the fabric stopped moving, he was spun around to face a floor-length mirror. He was stunned into silence.

“Well? What do you think?” Sherlock had been dressed in a vibrant yellow outfit, lined and decorated with gold trim.

“Please tell me you’re kidding?”

“What? I think it looks good.”

“I look like a fucking banana!”

“John likes bananas, if you catch my drift.” Sherlock blinked, processing what she just insinuated. He blushed as the words set in. “And going by your reaction, you are quite the fan of them too.”

“Please stop-”

“What’s wrong? Am I wrong? I’m never wrong about this.”

“Thank you for your lack of assistance. I will figure something else out-” He turned to walk away, but was stopped when Irene grabbed him by the elbow.

“Don’t be so dramatic. I’m only having a bit of fun. John may like bananas, but I don’t.” Sherlock blinked in confusion.”

“I am also gay, Sherlock.”

“I see. And John?”

“He is bisexual.” Sherlock blushed and looked at the ground, shuffling his feet. “Now stand still, I have just the outfit for you.”

 

 

“I hate you.” John groused as Greg danced around, throwing clothing at him and chatting on and on about what John should say and do tonight.

“You will thank me when we all are human again.”

“No, because that isn’t going to happen. I’m pretty sure Sherlock is asexual or something.”

“You thought that about Myc too at first, remember?”

“I’m still not a hundred percent sure that he’s not.”

“Oi! That’s my husband you’re talking about.”

“Fuck you.”

“Just put on the shirt.” John reluctantly obeyed, pulling on the dark blue overcoat that Greg had tossed him.

The Candelabra wasn’t wrong, the deep blue did make his eyes look good.

“This is a bad idea Greg. It’s just going to freak him out.”

“Sherlock Holmes is a brilliant, level-headed young man, and I’m almost certain he has feelings for you too.”

“I don’t have-”

“I’m going to stop you right there. You are bullshitting yourself again John, and you have to meet Sherlock in five minutes.” John felt his stomach tighten as he regarded his reflection.

He made his way down to the ballroom, trying to think of what to say. It had been a long time since he had tried to talk to someone about stuff like this. He stepped through the ornate doors, ignoring the whispers of the harpsichord and the band as he walked to the middle of the room.

He waited for what felt like hours, fidgeting with his clothes and pulling at his hair. He was on the verge of leaving, bailing on the whole meeting, when he heard the heavy doors swing open.

The sight he turned towards took his breath away.

Sherlock was dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, the jacket and trousers black with a silver trim. His shirt was a dark, rich purple that made his already porcelain skin look perfect in the glittering lights of the ballroom. Lestrade must have enlisted Irene to choose an outfit for him. He would have to remember to thank her later.

Sherlock looked nervous, pulling at his jacket and glancing around the ornate room. John stepped closer, rubbing the back of his neck and running one of his fangs along his bottom lip. He had learned a long time ago to not bite his lip.

“Hey.” Sherlock’s deep voice cut through the air. “Sorry I’m late. Your wardrobe is, chatty.” John chuckled softly, already starting to relax when he heard Sherlock chuckle as well.

“Don’t worry about it. I hope she didn’t make you too uncomfortable.”

“Oh, of course not. I always enjoy being hit on by antique furniture while in various stages of undress.” John laughed out loud at that, stepping closer to the young man. He liked this, how easy the conversation could be between them.

“Greg said you wanted to talk to me?”

“Who?”

“You really don’t know his name, do you?”

“Oh, Gavin. H-he did?”

“Was he wrong?”

“N-no. No. I-I just noticed that you s-seemed a little, I don’t know, flustered when you left earlier.” John couldn’t contain his smirk as the normally steady young man stumbled over his words.

“Yeah, sorry about that. I just realized something that I had been trying to avoid.” The band started to play, a soft, sweet song. Perfect to dance to, of course. Sherlock flushed as the music started, and John felt a swell of affection for the other man.

A spark of realization washed over John and he stepped closer to Sherlock, stretching his hand out to his friend.

“Dance with me?”

 

 

“Dance with me?” John’s paw stretched out to Sherlock, sending sparks of something unfamiliar up and down his spine. What was happening to him?

When he had first caught sight of John, he was convinced that his heart had stopped. Blue was a great color on The Beast.

His body reacted before he could think.

He stepped closer to John, taking his hand and smirking at the look of shock that crossed John’s face. He let himself be led to the middle of the floor. John swung him around, pulling him into his arms and holding him firmly against his chest.

Sherlock felt as though he was floating on air.

_Tale as old as time_

_True as it can be_

_Barely even friends_

_Then somebody bends_

_Unexpectedly_

A sweet voice filled the air around them, causing Sherlock to blush.

“You’re a good dancer.” John whispered, his voice a rich growl that rumbled through Sherlock’s frame.

“Thanks, you aren’t so bad yourself.” John chuckled, his smile lighting up the room.

_Just a little change_

_Small to say the least_

_Both a little scared_

_Neither one prepared_

_Beauty and The Beast_

“Beauty and The Beast?”

“If the shoe fits.” Sherlock blushed deeply at that, John thought he was attractive.

John thought he was attractive. He wanted to be with him. John wanted to court him.

His mind flashed back to the terror he felt the last time he saw Moriarty.

He couldn’t breathe.

“Sherlock?”

“I-I- I have to- I-I can’t-” He pushed himself out of John’s arms, mind reeling as he fled from the room.

“Sherlock!”


	12. The Spider

“Sherlock!” The young man ran from the castle, ignoring the pleas from the staff and John. “Sherlock wait! You can’t go out there! Sherlock!”

He ran to the stables, grabbing Redbeard’s halter and dragging the horse out of his stable. He used the fence of one of the stable doors to propel himself onto Redbeard’s back, far too lost in his panic to care about a saddle.

“Sherlock!” He could hear John yelling for him, sending another flare to panic through his mind. He kicked his horse into a gallop, tearing from the stables. “Sherlock! Stop! You’ll get hurt!”

He couldn’t stay. He couldn’t let this happen.

He looked back to see John, standing in front of the stables.

“I’m sorry John.”

 

John watched as Sherlock raced away, tugging at his hair and fighting for air. Sherlock was going to die out there, and there was no way he would let him save him.

“John! What’s going on?” Mycroft’s concerned voice came from behind him.

“He left.”

“What? Go after him!”

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t? John-”

“He ran because of me, Mycroft! I told him I thought he was attractive and he freaked out! He isn’t going to want me anywhere near him.” John felt his heart shatter as he lost sight of the young man. He dropped to his knees and held his head in his hands.

“John, he won’t survive out there. The wolves-”

“I killed the wolves. He will make it back to town fine.”

“I would almost rather him face the wolves.” Mycroft’s voice was dejected and broken as he stood beside John. “You have no idea what Moriarty will do to him John.”

“I’m sorry Mycroft. I can’t leave the borders.”

“Maybe he will come back.” John could hear in the clock’s voice that he didn’t believe his own words.

“He won’t. It’s too late Myc. I’m sorry I couldn’t free you guys.” John took a shuddering breath and looked at his friend. “Go be with your husband. Tell everyone I’m sorry.”

 

Sherlock saw the flickering lights of the town looming in the distance, and felt an impending sense of dread.

He had made a terrible mistake. John wasn’t going to hurt him. John would never hurt him.

He would return in the morning.

As Sherlock rode into town, he heard the whispers of the townspeople, he could feel the confusion and awe as they watched him ride along the streets.

He approached his house, tying Redbeard to the post and making his way inside. He would get some sleep and leave in the morning. He hesitated in the doorway, looking about the tiny building he used to call home. When did it get so small? So cluttered?

When did he become so lonely?

“Sherlock! Long time, no see.” The voice that haunted his nightmares filled the small space, causing Sherlock to jump, spinning around and reeling backwards.

Moriarty stood in the doorway, an evil smirk on his face. Moran stood behind him, arms crossed and a nasty scowl on his face.

“I-I-”

“What’s wrong Honey? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” The pair stepped inside, closing and latching the door behind them. Sherlock stumbled backwards, his eyes searching for something he could use as a weapon.

Where was his revolver when he needed it?

“You Know, I’m fine with you taking a few days if you need it every once a while, but this is ridiculous.”

“Why are you here Moriarty?” Sherlock struggled to keep his voice steady as he found himself backed against the wall.

“Well I’m here to see my betrothed of course!”

“I am not your betrothed. I don’t belong to you!” Moriarty stepped close to Sherlock, reaching up to brush the curls out of Sherlock’s face. The younger man stopped his hand before he could touch him. “Don’t touch me, you spider.” He growled, feeling an unnerving sense of fear at the anger that filled Moriarty’s face.

“You know Sherlock,” the man pulled his wrist out of Sherlock’s grip, stepping back just slightly, “as much as I have enjoyed you playing hard to get, its getting boring,” Sherlock felt pain flare in his cheek as Moriarty drew back and punched him. “It’s been fun, but daddy’s had enough now!” He tried to escape, but Moriarty pressed his hand against the wounds on Sherlock’s chest. He cried out and felt his knees buckle at the pain. “Oh, what’s this?” Moriarty tore his shirt open, revealing the bandages.

They were stained with fresh blood.

“My, my, what did this to you?” Sherlock whimpered as the man poked at the bleeding wounds. “Was it those nasty wolves I always hear out there?”

“G-go to Hell.”

“Tsk, tsk, that was a little rude. I just want to know what happened Darling.” Moriarty roughly ground his knuckle into the largest of the gashes, pulling a tortured scream from Sherlock. “Where have you been Sweetheart? Tell me, and I’ll make the pain stop. It will all go away if you tell me where you went.”

The pain was blinding, and Sherlock was starting to lose the ability to think.

John. He needed John.

“John? Who is this John?” Sherlock was vaguely aware that he was calling out for the beast, but he couldn’t stop himself. The pain had stripped away any filter he might have had.

He couldn’t stop the words from spilling.

“Well, I can’t have my future husband’s heart belonging to a beast, can I?”

“What is your plan?” Moran spoke for the first time. Moriarty grinned and stepped away from Sherlock, letting him fall to the floor.

“I’m going to kill The Beast.”


	13. The Tallest Tower

Sherlock woke to find himself tied to one of his kitchen chairs. His chest was aching and he could feel the dried blood pulling at his skin as he fought the bindings. Moriarty had knocked him unconscious before leaving, planning on going after John.

John. Sherlock had to warn him.

He pulled at the rope that held him tight against the chair, finding there was no give.

“Help! Somebody! Please!” He screamed, fighting against the rope hard enough to break the skin. “Help! Please! Somebody! Help me!” He was beginning to think he would never be heard when there was a knock at the door.

“Sherlock? Is everything alright?”

“Mike! Help me! Please!”

“The door’s locked.”

“Break it in.” There was silence for a moment before the door came crashing in. Mike stepped in, catching sight of Sherlock and racing over to untie him.

“Jesus, Sherlock. What the fuck is going on? Where have you been?”

“Mike, you have to help me. I need to get back.”

“You need a hospital Sherlock.”

“No! I have to help John!” Mike stopped untying Sherlock’s wrists and stepped around him, a look of concern in his eyes.

“Sherlock, Moriarty was running through town, shouting something about a Beast named John that tried to kill you. Him and Moran are headed to the palace now to kill him.” Sherlock felt his chest tighten and he continued to struggle against his bindings. “Did the Beast do this to you?”

“No. John would never hurt me. Wolves did this to me. John saved my life. Please Mike. I’ve got to save him.” Mike looked uncertain for a moment, not really trusting what Sherlock was saying.

“You trust this John?”

“Yes. With my life. Please Mike.” The Librarian nodded, stepping back around to untie Sherlock. As soon as his wrists were freed, he sprung to his feet, only to nearly fall to the floor. Mike caught him before he fell, propping him up against the nearest wall.

“Sherlock, you need a doctor.”

“John is a doctor. I need to get to him.” Mike sighed and helped Sherlock out of the flat, begging the young man to see a doctor before he left.

Mike put a bridle on Redbeard and lifted Sherlock onto his back.

“Do you want me to come?”

“I can’t wait for you. If you wish to follow, turn at the twisted tree felled by lightning, you won’t see the path until you’re on it. You’ll know you found it when you come across snow.”

“Be careful Sherlock.”

He kicked his horse into action and raced from the town, praying to every deity he could think of that he would make it on time

 

 

John was sitting in Sherlock’s lab, holding the leather-bound copy of the Hobbit the young man had refused to part with.

“John?” He heard Mycroft’s voice coming from the doorway.

“He left his book.” John didn’t bother to hide the misery in his voice. Mycroft climbed onto the counter, setting himself beside The Beast and glancing at the book.

“I used to read it to him when he was a child. He loved hearing about the adventures of Bilbo and the Dwarves.”

“I thought you were with Greg?”

“We have a problem.”

“What’s wrong?”

“There are men storming the castle boarders.”

“Let them come. By the end of the night, you all will be gone and I will have nothing left to live for.”

“John-”

“Go be with your husband Myc. I’m sorry.” John stood and left the room, leaving Sherlock’s book on the counter beside Mycroft as he fled to the highest tower.

 

 

Sherlock pushed Redbeard harder than ever before, once again marveling at the stamina of the horse. He could see the outline of the palace he had come to call home, standing black against the night sky.

As he neared, he could hear the cries of men and see the flickering torches surrounding the castle doors.

They were already here.

 

John could hear the cries of men in battle from his perch, and felt his heart swell for his staff. They were trying to protect him and his castle. He didn’t deserve friends like that, not after everything he did to them.

“Well, well.” An unfamiliar voice came from behind him, cutting through his thoughts unpleasantly and sending a chill along his spine. “You must be John. I’ve heard so much about you.” John turned to see a dark-haired man grinning at him. The smile didn’t reach his eyes though, leaving them cold, dark and empty.

John remembered his face. This was Moriarty, the man who wanted to hurt Sherlock.

“My name is Moriarty. Sherlock sent me. Said you were the one that scratched him up.” John couldn’t contain the growl that escaped his chest. Sherlock wouldn’t say that. He wouldn’t lie about that.

“That’s a lie.”

“It’s the truth. Said you have a bit of a temper. He got lippy and you snapped.”

“No.”

“Oh yes. And you see, I am defensive of the things I want.” John’s instincts kicked in as he watched Moriarty draw a silver blade from his belt. “You hurt Sherlock, now, I’m going to kill you.”

John stumbled back as Moriarty lashed at him, the knife catching on his shirt as he narrowly avoided the blade.

“Stand still, I’ll make it relatively quick.” Moriarty growled as he chased John, swinging the blade after the Beast. John felt the castle crumble beneath his feet, the stone path he was standing on falling away. He cried out as he fell, scrabbling for purchase as he slid down the roof of one of the towers. “Come on John! Don’t be scared! This is what Sherlock wants!”

John felt the pain in his claws as he struggled to maintain his grip on the crumbling castle. Moriarty stood above him, that unnerving grin on his face as he watched John struggle.

“It’s so easy to love Sherlock Holmes, isn’t it John? He is beautiful, smart, untouchable. I have offered him everything, the best stuff anyone could ever imagine, and yet he still chose you. What do you have that I don’t? You could never satisfy him, not like I could.” John slid down a few more inches, fighting to stop himself from falling to his death. “This is boing, John. You bore me. So plain, what ever does he see in you?”

“He doesn’t see you.” John growled, his claws aching from holding up his weight. He could see the change in Moriarty’s face at those words. The grin disappeared and was quickly replaced with rage.

“Well, now he will have no choice but to be with me. Time to die John.” Moriarty raised the blade above his head, preparing to bring it down on John’s hand.

“John!”

Sherlock’s scream echoed through the air. He came back.


	14. Priorities

Sherlock ran up the stairs to one of the main towers, fighting against the pain in his chest. The wounds had re-opened and he was losing more blood, but he couldn’t stop. Moriarty had John and he had to save him. He stopped at a window, trying to see if he could find John.

His heart nearly stopped when he saw his friend.

He was hanging off the tallest tower, scrabbling for purchase against the roof. Moriarty stood above him, blade in hand, apparently talking to The Beast.

Sherlock ran up the stairs, pushing his body faster.

He stopped at the next window in time to see Moriarty raise his blade above his head, rage filling his face.

“John!” He screamed, feeling his throat burn with the force of his cries. Moriarty’s blade froze before it struck it’s target, both him and John turning to look at the young man.

“Sherlock!”

 

 

John’s entire being filled with light when he saw Sherlock. The young man was covered in blood, his shirt ripped and his wrists torn and bleeding, but he was there. He was leaning heavily against the window and looked terrified, but he came back.

“You came back!”

“Of course I came back John, don’t be dull!” John grinned, God he loved that man.

“Hang on! I’ll come to you!”

“You won’t make it, Dear John.” Moriarty growled above him, drawing John’s attention from the young man. “Did I forget to mention? If I can’t have him, no one can.” Moriarty reached around the back of his trousers and pulled out a shiny silver pistol.

“Sherlock!” John heard the bullet as he called out, feeling his stomach drop as he watched the bullet strike Sherlock’s chest. “Sherlock!”

 

 

“Sherlock!” He heard the cry at the same instant he saw Moriarty fire the gun. Instantly after, he felt the dull, thudding impact of a bullet hitting his chest.

His mind went into overdrive.

“It’s not like the dramatizations, is it little brother?” A voice cut through his mind, the ghostly image of a man, not much older than himself, appearing before him. “There’s no huge spurt of blood, you don’t go flying back into the wall. It just, happens.”

“Who are you?”

“Priorities, Brother Mine. Now, where is the bullet?”

“Still in my chest.”

“Good. Fall backwards.”

“Minimize the blood loss.”

“Precisely. You have already lost far too much blood today. Fall now.” Sherlock felt his body fall, connecting roughly with the stone stairs. “Focus Sherlock, you need to stay focused. You will slip into shock if you don’t fight.” Sherlock pulled forth the memory of the dance with John, focusing on the feel of the Beast pressed against him. “The pain will start soon, don’t run from it, embrace it Sherlock. Keep fighting.”

Everything faded away, leaving Sherlock alone in a swirling pit of dark, aching pain.

He needed John.

 

 

John watched in horror as Sherlock’s face went slack, his body dropping backwards into the tower.

“Sherlock!” He could hear Moriarty cackling above him and felt his body fill with a white-hot rage. He forced his way up the roof, a vicious snarl ripping through his chest. He pulled himself up in front of Moriarty, knocking the gun from the man’s hand and gripping the front of his shirt.

He dangled the man off the edge of the castle, feeling his anger rise as a morbid look of amusement flashed over Moriarty’s face.

“You couldn’t kill me John. You don’t have it-”

John let him fall before his could finish that sentence. He grinned as he heard the sickening thud of a body connecting with the stone below.

“I’m coming Sherlock.”


	15. The Enchantress

“Sherlock!” John ran through the castle, replaying the layout of the palace in his head. Sherlock was in the middle tower. He found the correct stairwell and raced up, keeping his eyes open for Sherlock’s body.

He found the young man, unconscious on the cold stairs.

“Sherlock?” He knelt beside his friend, automatically checking his vitals and pulling off the blood-soaked bandages. “Oh God, Sherlock. Stay with me.” He grabbed the too-thin man in his arms, carrying him down the tower.

He had to get him to the Far Wing.

“John?” Mycroft’s voice came from behind him, but he didn’t stop. “John, what happened?”

“Moriarty. He shot Sherlock.” John raced up the stairs, going as quickly as he could without dropping the young man. “Hang on Sherlock.”

“Save him John!” He threw open the door to the Far Wing, the dust swirling heavily as he lowered Sherlock’s unconscious form onto the bed.

This used to be his room, before the curse.

“Sherlock? Hey, can you hear me?” He brushed the damp curls from the pale skin, feeling an emptiness settle over his chest. “Sherlock? Please answer me.” He felt for the young man’s pulse, finding it weak and unsteady.

The bullet had torn into his sternum, most likely catching in the bones of his chest.

John felt his breath catch as Sherlock’s pulse faded.

“No, no Sherlock. Please! Sherlock!” John felt a huge weight crushing his heart. Sherlock was gone. “No. Sherlock, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” He wrapped the limp form in his arms, pulling him tight to his chest and tucking his face against Sherlock’s neck. “I love you.” He whispered, his heart breaking at the lack of response.

He felt the castle crumble for the final time.

The last petal had fallen.

“Mary. Mary please.” John whispered, calling out for the Enchantress, praying that she would hear him. That she was listening.

 

 

“You know. I never thought he would do it.” A soft voice cut through the fog that had taken over Sherlock’s mind. He spun around, hunting for the source of the voice.

“John?”

“John can’t hear you Sherlock. You’re dead.” A spark of realization hit Sherlock as the voice became clearer.

“You’re the Enchantress. The one that cursed John.”

“That’s right. I can see why he likes you, you’re clever.”

“Let him go.” The image of a woman appeared before him, petite, blonde, and pretty. She smiled sadly at him, clasping her hands in front of her and backing away. He followed her, coming to a stop in front of a large glass dome. Under the glass, stood the stem of a rose, blackened petals surrounding it.

The last petal had fallen.

“Do you know why I cursed him Sherlock?”

“He said it was because he rejected you.”

“In a manner of speaking. We were married.” Sherlock looked at her in shock. “I figured he had left that part out.” Sherlock looked back and saw John, clinging to his lifeless form.

“What happened?”

“We had a fight. He didn’t love me, not really. I confronted him, words were exchanged.”

“Then you cursed him.”

“Only until he found someone he truly loved.”

“He found someone. Set him free.”

“That person also has to love him back.” Sherlock felt as though he had been hit in the chest.

“Does it matter if that person is dead?” The Enchantress smiled, reaching out and taking his hand.

“Sherlock, you have to be certain that you-”

“I do. I never do anything that I am not certain of.”

“You ran away when he told you he found you attractive.” Sherlock pursed his lips, trying to find the right words.

“I ran because of Moriarty. Not John. It was a mistake and I was planning to return in the morning. I-I-” Sherlock hesitated, feeling the words catch in his throat. “If I say it, John will be freed, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And what about me?” The look of sadness that crossed her face told Sherlock everything he needed to know. “I love him. Set him free.”

“You will never be with him.”

“I don’t care. If he is free, nothing else matters, he deserves that.” The Enchantress nodded, stepping away from Sherlock and fading away, taking with her everything else he could see.

“Goodbye John.”

 

 

“He loves you.” The vaguely familiar voice of Mary filled his thoughts. He set Sherlock’s body back on the bed and turned to her, preparing to beg her forgiveness.

“Please, give him back. I’ll stay like this, just please don’t take him from me.” Mary smiled sadly, taking John’s hands in her own. “Please Mary. I-I love him.”

“I know John, he loves you too.”

“Then give him back!”

“I can’t John-”

“Bullshit!” John pushed her away, standing up and tugging on his hair. “You’re an Enchantress, don’t tell me you can’t save him. You’re still mad that I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life in a loveless marriage with you!”

“John, I am setting you free.” John stopped pacing, turning back to look at Mary. There was a sadness in her eyes that John hadn’t seen since their fight.

“Mary-”

“He loves you. He told me. He wants you to be free.”

“I don’t want to be free without him.” Mary grabbed his hands, smiling up at him.

“You really love him, don’t you?”

“More than anything.” The Enchantress smiled, dropping his hands and stepping back towards the dome that held the rose.

The faint sound of glass tinkling filled the air as the dome covering what was left of the rose shattered. A soft golden glow lit up the room, and the dead petals from the rose swirled up and around, surrounding John. He was lifted into the air, the strange tingling sensation of magic filling his being.

Pain ripped through his being as the curse was lifted. He could feel the grinding of his bones and tearing and compressing of his muscles as the magic changed him.

When he was set back down, he found himself swaying on unfamiliar feet.

He looked at his hands, the hands that fought through the war, stitched together the wounds of so many men and women. He breathed a sigh of relief when his fangs no longer caught on his lips when he grinned. He ran his hands through his hair, reveling in the shortness of it. He looked around for Mary, but she was gone.

“J-John?”


	16. Beauty and the Beast

Pain filled Sherlock’s being, drawing him back from the darkness. He tried to scream, tried to call out for John, but nothing happened.

He couldn’t move.

This wasn’t right. Something was wrong, he should have been dead by now, not feeling more pain than before. His chest was burning and it felt as though the skin was crawling around. He wanted to scream, to tear at the irritated flesh until the pain stopped.

He needed John, Mycroft, somebody. He would even take Gerry at this point.

Suddenly, the pain stopped. Everything disappeared, leaving Sherlock alone in the emptiness that had taken over his mind when his heart stopped.

His heart restarted with a painful thud.

He gasped for breath, his lungs burning as the stale air hit them. He forced his eyes open, the pale light of the rising sun filling the room.

A man stood, facing the window, looking down at his hands and tugging at his hair.

It was The Prince.

His Beast.

“J-John-” The man turned, looking at Sherlock with relief so intense it must have hurt.

“Sherlock!” His voice was a broken whisper as he stumbled over to the bed, falling to his knees and pulling Sherlock into his arms.

The Prince was hugging him.

The Prince loved him.

Sherlock returned the hug, feeling tears pricking the backs of his eyes.

“God, I’m so sorry Sherlock.” John pulled back, taking Sherlock’s face in his hands and looking at him. Sherlock’s memory recognized The Prince, but he felt as though he was seeing John for the first time. “I-I should have protected you. I-I shouldn’t have l-let you leave-”

“No. John, no. Don’t- please don’t-” Sherlock struggled to speak, his mouth not able to form the words his mind was supplying.

He gripped John’s shirt and pulled him close, pressing his lips against The Prince’s.

It was fire, ice, life and death. It was perfect, and Sherlock wouldn’t have it any other way.

“John? Sherlock?” A new voice came from the doorway, pulling more memories from the dusty, abandoned corner of Sherlock’s mind. He pulled away from John, looking towards the voice and saw Mycroft, his older brother, standing in the door.

“Mycroft!” He pulled himself out of John’s embrace and stumbled over to his brother, wrapping his arms around him and clinging to him.

“Brother Mine. You finally remember me.” Sherlock nodded against the neck of his sibling. “I have missed you little brother.” Sherlock heard a shuffling behind him and removed himself from his brother’s arms, turning to face John.

He was shorter now, standing several inches shorter than Sherlock, but he carried himself with the confidence of a soldier.

He looked like a true Prince, standing in his torn, dirty clothes. John grinned up at him, reaching for his hand and pulling him close.

“I suppose this means you want my blessing?” John glanced around Sherlock, looking hopefully at Mycroft. “You don’t even need to ask, My Prince. My brother is yours if he chooses you.” John turned his gaze to Sherlock, hope filling his dark blue eyes.

“Will you be mine, Sherlock Holmes?”

“Until the end of my days, My Beast.” John grinned and leaned up to capture Sherlock’s lips in a tender kiss.

 

 

The ball was beautiful, all the people of the town gathered in their finest clothes to see the Prince wed his groom.

John led Sherlock onto the dancefloor, the crowd parting around them. When they reached the middle of the floor, the music started, a soft familiar song that left Sherlock grinning. John pulled him into his arms and started moving him gently.

_Tale as old as time_

_Tune as old as song_

_Bitter sweet and strange_

_Finding you can change_

_Learning you were wrong_

“You never mentioned that you were married.” John laughed, pulling his new husband tight against him.

“Why? Does that bother you?”

“Not at all. She was a bitch.” John laughed again and pulled Sherlock down for a kiss. The crowd cheered, causing a blush to rise along Sherlock’s neck.

_Certain as the sun_

_Rising in the east_

_Tale as old as time_

_Song as old as rhyme_

_Beauty and the beast_

“You really have a thing for calling me ‘Beauty’, don’t you?”

“Well, as I said before, if the shoe fits.” Sherlock’s blush deepened.

“I’ve been meaning to ask, when did Mycroft marry George? Last I remember, they were only just starting to date.”

“That was ten years ago Love, a lot changed. Even if nothing did.”

“I should have been there.”

“No. Then you would have been trapped in the castle as well, and something tells me you would have made a pretty grumpy microscope.” Sherlock chuckled, unable to deny that statement.

Mycroft spun his husband past them, grinning at his younger brother.

“You look happy, Brother Mine.”

“I could say the same to you.”

“What can I say, its nice to dance with my husband properly.”

“Congratulations Gavin. Welcome to the family.”

“Will you ever learn my name?”

“I know your name Brenda, you are just fun to tease.” John laughed and spun Sherlock away before Lestrade could hit him.

“Must you provoke him? I just got you back, I’m not really too keen on losing you to Greg’s-” Sherlock cut him off with a deep kiss.

“I’m not going anywhere John.” The Prince grinned and leaned up, pressing another kiss to his new husband’s lips as the music continued to play.

_Tale as old as time_

_Song as old as rhyme_

_Beauty and the beast_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well....that's all folks!! Hope you enjoyed it!!! This was probably my favorite of all the AUs I've written so far (I'll post my others soon)


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